


A Whole New Level of Freak

by FandomNutter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:43:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3534974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomNutter/pseuds/FandomNutter





	1. A Whole New Level of Freak

Sherlock’s phone beeped with a text from Lestrade, “Don’t go in without back up!”

The consulting detective shoved the phone back into his pocket and crept towards an old moon lit mill. There was a rumor that Jacquelyn Hart, an infamous murder who’s signature was to keep the limbs of her victims, was living in the abandoned building with her guard dog. The dog itself was a rumor, but where ever she went locals claimed to hear monstrous howls.

Sherlock smirked to himself when he reached the door, Lestrade seemed to think he needed a baby sitter. Absently wondering about the best way to get his stash back from the DI he picked the rusty lock. As the door swung open Sherlock pulled a flashlight from his pocket and stepped over the threshold.

It was clear that a woman had been in the first room hours before, and Sherlock continued further into the mill. The area containing machinery was surrounded by a perimeter of floor to ceiling silver bars, an expensive material for fencing, with a gate barred by a chain and locked securely with a heavy padlock. Sherlock shined his torch between the bars was just able to make out a pile of bones in the middle of the enormous room. Eager to examine them Sherlock picked the fence’s lock and hurried over to the evidence.

Cleaned of meat, several calcaneus bones and phalanges lay in a scattered pile in front of the detective. Before Sherlock could examine them further a large animal slammed into his side knocking him over. His head collided with the brick floor and darkness swam before his eyes as he passed out.

 

Sherlock blearily opened his eyes and attempted to get his bearings. He was numb, a dull fluorescent light shinned over his head, and some one was sitting next to him. Blinking Sherlock lifted his head with effort, but when he saw his company he let out a groan and snapped his eyes shut.

“Good morning brother,” Mycroft said as Sherlock attempted to move from the hospital bed, only managing a half-halfhearted twitch from one of his legs, “you have been quite busy since I last saw you.”

“Why am I here?” Sherlock asked, disgusted when he heard his voice slur.

Mycroft smiled, “Don’t you remember? You were on the Jacquelyn Hart case.”

Sherlock grumbled, “I hit my head. This place has me on a morphine drip. Either they are complete idiots or something is really wrong.”

“Ah, you must have lost consciousness before sustaining the worst of your injuries,” Mycroft continued smugly, ignoring his brother’s glare, “you have sixteen puncture wounds in your left side.”

Sherlock sighed in frustration, “I don’t want to play games, tell me what happened.”

Mycroft twirled his umbrella as he spoke, “A Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard arrived at a disused mill at two o’clock this morning and found you unconscious on the floor bleeding heavily. He called an ambulance and the doctors stitched you up. The wound is a bite from an unknown animal.”

“Unknown animal,” Sherlock scoffed, “surely Mycroft Holmes can deduce the culprit.”

“I have had a look at the bite,” Mycroft said wrinkling his nose, “the puncture pattern is easily recognizable as canine. Considering the size of the bite and the depth of the wound it is similar to a wolf’s bite.”

“But?” Sherlock prompted impatiently.

“The bite is twice the size of any known wolf’s jaw.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked away from his brother. Mycroft of all people should be able to recognize the animal behind his injury. The second he regained his mobility he would examine it properly, but at the moment there was still a case to wrap up.

“Did Lestrade find Jacquelyn?”

Mycroft stood before answering, “Miss Hart and our mystery creature fled before law enforcement arrived at the scene.” As he walked to the door he called back, “And brother dearest, do not try to leave the ward early.”

“I would not dream of it,” Sherlock yawned shutting his eyes.

 

Sherlock was released from the hospital a week latter with several doses of pain medication and a strict warning to let his wounds heal without being disturbed. He had smiled at the nurse as she told him the list of activities he should avoid, but on the inside he was itching to examine his wound.

Once Sherlock arrived at his little basement flat he spread the bottles out on the table. Mild narcotics, they would only slow him down. He stored them in his cabinet making a mental note to get some local anesthetics from Bart’s.

Sherlock walked to his room and removed his shirt before dusting off a cracked mirror. The black stitches stuck bluntly out of his pale skin and he ran a curious finger over a few of them. His eyes narrowed as he studied the wounds. He did not recognize the bite mark. Like his brother had said, it closely resembled a canine’s.

He reached for his box of cigarettes and lighter. He needed to visit his mind palace. Sherlock lit the end of a cigarette and held it to his lips, inhaling deeply. He let out a long exhale and shut his eyes.

Canine. Domestic or wild. Teeth configuration, too wide to be a fox, too big to be a dog. Legends. Larger than life. Cerberus, Surma, Amaguq, Inugami, Barghest, Cŵn Annwn, Freybug, Gwyllgi, Akhlut. Ritual? Teeth, bite, depth. Not enough pressure to kill. Crush, clamps, slow death. Interrupted? Cast of teeth scaled to be.....

Sherlock shouted in frustration and put his head in his hands, ignoring the cigarette which was dangerously close to his hair. There weren't any possible explanations. The bite was too clean to have been an animal regardless of size. If a person had been crushing him between a device inspired by a dog’s jaw Lestrade would have caught them, it would have taken time.

Breathing in a lung full of smoke Sherlock gazed down at his stitches. It was a mystery to ponder in his spare time, he needed to get back to catching Jacquelyn Hart.

 

 

Sherlock woke in his dark room and sat up, try to figure out what had stirred him. A sharp pain in his chest caused him to slump over and he figured he had found it. The pain seemed to be coming from the site of the bite. The wounds had healed rapidly since he was released from the hospital three weeks ago and only faint scars remained. Sherlock was frustrated with the lack of logical explanation for anything relating to his night in the mill.

He crawled out of bed to look for painkillers when his phone vibrated. Lestrade wanted him to examine a body. Sherlock grumbled to himself as he opened the bottle of pills, it seemed louder than usual. Swallowing them dry he switched on the light and flinched. The single bulb in his room was causing him pain, and he rubbed his eyelids, trying without success to figure out why.

He had spent the whole of yesterday examining a library, but he felt like he had a sever hangover. Well, almost like he had a hangover, he felt no urge to regurgitate the meager contents of his stomach. He replied to Lestrade saying he would be with him within the hour.

 

“The body, were is it?” Sherlock demanded when he arrived at the scene of the crime, a family owned deli shop.

“Lying behind the counter,” Lestrade replied and Sherlock rushed past him.  
“Victor Greene, age 34, he ran the book store at the end of the street.”

Sherlock bent over the corpse but the scent of the shop was overpowering. The names of hams and cheeses popped into his head until he had the entire counter mapped out based off the scent. No, he mentally shook himself, case. He opened his eyes and looked down at the body. The dead man was wearing a light blue button up with a silver vest and gray pants. His hair was dyed brown but the blon-

Donavon was walking towards him and his head snapped up in her direction, “I need space to investigate!” he said sharply. She raised her eyebrows at Lestrade and whispered about another drug bust. 

Sherlock jumped up and spoke through gritted teeth, “Mr. Green was infatuated with the shop owner’s daughter. She frequented his shop until one week ago when his advances became physical. She was too nervous to tell her father and decided to ignore him. He broke in last night when she was closing and pushed her into the cheap fake plant not knowing it was top heavy. Her hair tangled in the ‘leaves’ and she fell down. Once she started to cry Mr. Greene felt remorse and tried to help her up. She ran out of the store. Mr. Green realized that he could only hurt her so he injected himself in a vein with IPA he found in the kitchen using a syringe he had with him, being a diabetic.”

“What ever you are on, you should give it a rest.” Donavon sneered.

Sherlock let out a threatening animal like growl, surprising himself as well as Lestrade and Donavon. He hastily left the shop and headed back to his flat. Once he had locked the door Sherlock paced around nervously, attempting to regain control of himself. He tentatively tried to recreate the sound he had made in the shop, and was slightly relieved he could not.

He could of imagined it, Sherlock mused, but Lestrade’s and Donavon's reactions said otherwise. He sat on his bed and steepled his fingers. Donavon had made a quip about him being on drugs. Had he been acting differently from usual? Yes.

Sherlock reclined in his bed, not bothering to remove his clothes. He had been sleeping a lot more that he use to of late, and though it was only mid afternoon he was willing to sleep for at least twelve hours.

 

Sherlock groaned as he lay face down on the floor. His head ache was gone, but the rest of him was sore. He propped himself up with his elbows and did not recognize his location immediately. The walls around him had deep gouge marks and every piece of furniture had been shredded, along with every book and item of clothing. Sherlock’s curiosity was drowned by the horror that he was looking at his own flat, and the fact he was naked was an unimportant side note.

He shakily rose to his feet and looked around his flat. It had been massacred, and he was grateful that his violin was in a repair shop. The clothes he had worn to sleep caught his attention. Unlike all of his other possessions, they had not been shredded. It looked as if he had burst from them and the buttons from his shirt were scattered across this floor. They were covered in short black hairs, too straight to be his own. Dog hair.

Sherlock ran his tongue along his teeth and felt a twinge of pain. As he pulled a splinter from his upper left gum his eyes fell on onto what remained of his cabinet. One of the doors was fairly undamaged but had clear indents from an enormous set of teeth. Upon closer examination a few drops of blood glistened on the left side...

Shaking Sherlock sat among the ruins, unsure of what to do. No one had entered his flat, the door was as scarred as the walls but all the harm was done from the inside.  
If some one had picked the lock.....Sherlock did not actually care.

He knew he was just trying to distract himself from the reality of the situation. He needed to calm down, to get out of the flat. Sherlock located his phone which was functional but who’s screen was blank. He dialed Molly Hooper’s number and tapped his fingers impatiently on the floor.

After hearing a quiet “Hello” from the other line and Sherlock said, “Its me, I need you to bring me the clothing from my locker. The combination is 9471-”

“Sherlock when did you get my number?” Molly asked interrupting him.

He ignored her and continued, “03. I am at my flat and need them at once.” before ending the call and tossing the phone onto what remained of his bed.

 

There was a knock at his door as Sherlock was collecting some of the hair from his clothes. He opened it a crack and stuck his arm out until he felt cloth in his hand. His fingers clamped down and he pulled his arm back into the flat slamming the door behind it.

“Is that it?” Molly’s voice called through the door.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied looking down at the clothes in his hands, “actually no. I need shoes too.”

“Experiment when wrong, did it?” She asked with a forced laugh.

“I should have an extra pair in the flammable storage cabinet.” Sherlock muttered pulling on the clothes. He opened the door as he was buttoning his shirt and stepped out to join Molly, “I need to go to Bart’s anyway to test some hair samples,” he looked up to see her staring into his flat. He hastily shut the door and walked outside, not waiting for Molly to join him as he hailed a cab.

 

By the time Molly arrived at the lab Sherlock had already tested the DNA of one of the hair follicles and was examining the hair under a microscope. She looked at the gel he had run, it had two identical DNA sequences. The tiny labels read “Hair collected from shirt” and “Hair collected from scalp” in Sherlock’s sloping hand writing.

“Tough case?” she asked as Sherlock sat back from the lens looking agitated.

“No,” Sherlock replied distractedly. The DNA from his shirt matched his DNA, but was undeniably a dog hair. It suddenly hit him that he was starving. He put on his coat and left the lab without another word.

 

“Angelo’s.” Sherlock said as he slipped into a cab. When the cab pulled up in front of the restaurant he tossed some money at the driver and strode to the doors. Angelo looked a bit tired, but when he spotted Sherlock he greeted him enthusiastically. The grizzled man grabbed him in his usual one armed hug but froze, sniffing loudly. Sherlock eyed him, bemused, until Angelo released him. The grin had disappeared from the man’s face and he asked Sherlock if they could have a word in private. Sherlock agreed and they walked to a back room.

“How are you feeling?” Anglo asked in a low voice.

“At the moment, hungry and confused. Two relatively rare situations for me.” Sherlock admitted.

“Good,” Anglo said glancing at the door, “I would be worried if you weren't hungry. The first night is always rough, most end up killing who ever they meet.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock asked, his voice losing it’s usual cold confidence.

Angelo considered him before responding, “I would have thought you would have figured it out by now. Then again you are probably in denial, though the thought has crossed your mind. Where were you a month ago yesterday?”

“I was on a case. I was searching a mill and got attacked by a-” Sherlock’s voice died in his throat.

Angelo looked at him grimly, “I will have the boys scrape something together for you, then I will explain the best I can.”

Sherlock slumped into a chair. Angelo could not be suggesting what he thought he was. It was too bizarre. Too...improbable...

Angelo returned with a folded table and a plate of raw meat. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as Angelo set up the table in front of him and placed the food down. Once the meat was in front of him Sherlock forgot about e. coli and parasites, and it took a good deal of will power to stop himself from devouring it on the spot. He wanted an explanation.

“Where did it bite you?” Angelo inquired as he pulled up a chair for himself. Sherlock gestured to the spot on his chest. They sat is silence for what felt like an eternity, finally broken by Angelo. “Well are you going to say it or shall I?” He sighed.

Sherlock moistened his lips, “You think I am a werewolf.”

“I know you are a werewolf,” Angelo replied. He whipped his face before speaking in slightly choked voice, “You should have told me you were going after Jacquelyn. Thats the reason she keeps pieces of her victims. She became addicted to human flesh and felt it was kinder to kill them with a knife rather then rip them apart.”

Sherlock’s stomach squirmed as he looked down at his plate. “Are you a werewolf too?”

Angelo nodded, “I could smell it on you when you came in. The scent and ability to spread the condition lingers for a day after each transformation. That is bovine by the way, not human.”

Hardly able to believe the conversation he was having Sherlock reached for his utensils, “There are several legends of werewolves, each with there own version of the process and aftermath,” he picked up a small piece of the dripping meat with his fork, “Which one is real?”

The second the meat connected with his tongue his restraint snapped. Sherlock dropped the fork and began ripping the steak apart in large chunks with his hands, despairing that his teeth were dull as he chewed, not caring that he was ruining his last shirt. Angelo watched him eat, patiently waiting for him to finish before speaking. A minute latter Sherlock’s face, hands, and shirt were stained with myoglobin and he looked up from his empty plate panting slightly.

“Werewolves can be created by bite transmission or genetics. The first time a werewolf transforms, which is triggered when the full moon is in the sky and does not matter whether or not the man can see it, it is as good as rabid. As you know the next day he or she wakes up with no memory of the night before. After a few moons we can learn to control ourselves in wolf form, and I have no doubt that you will master it in no time. I on the other hand tend to be aggressive regardless,” Angelo confessed, “I avoid humans, but am still a danger to to others like us. I will be to you.”

“Who knows that werewolves exist?” Sherlock asked, sure he or his brother would have heard of them.

“Being a werewolf is not very common, and only werewolves and their families know. It was a much bigger problem in the past, now we just want to live in peace.”

“Silver?” Sherlock asked remembering the mill.

“When we are human we can die like any other,” Angelo shrugged, “As a wolf only silver or another can kill us.”

Sherlock stood scrubbing his face with a napkin and said, “What hotel do you suggest I stay at? I destroyed my flat last night.”

 

Sherlock was in a pleasant mood as he pipetted a blood sample into a test tube. It had been only a few days since the full moon and he felt back to normal. The door to the lab clicked open and a heavy man in a tan jacket shuffled in. “Morinin Sherlock!” Mike Stamford said cheerfully opening a file cabinet.

Sherlock gave him a noncommittal nod and continued working. “I saw your landlord yesterday.” Mike said, not taking the hint, “he is one of my patients. Awful arthritis. Anyway, he was complaining that one of his tenants had been gone for a while and when he went to check the flat it was in pieces. I asked him if he was worried for the tenant, you know, like if he had been kidnapped.” Sherlock rolled his eyes wondering how long Mike would go on for, “And he said that this guy was always getting busted for drugs and he would thank any kidnapper. He could only be describing you.”

“I am flattered,” Sherlock said dryly.

“Have you considered where you will be living next?” Mike asked.

“Nope,” Sherlock replied placing his pipet on the counter and suddenly remembering a case he had solved in Florida. The woman involved now owned several flats in London and one had a convenient setup for experiments.

“You could get a flat share.” Mike suggested.

“I never knew you to be a joker,” Sherlock said cooly, “Who would want me as a flatmate? If you will excuse me I have a body examine.”

 

The door to the lab clicked open and Mike walked in for the second time that day looking smug and followed by a short blond man. Sherlock glanced up. Mike had clearly though his friend could potentially be his flatmate. 

He needed to text Lestrade. “Mike can I borrow you phone?” Sherlock asked abruptly.

Mike did not have his but the new man, John Watson, offered his own. Sherlock began typing, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” John replied in surprise, “how did you know?”

Molly arrived with a cup of coffee and Sherlock sipped it considering the situation. He was disliked by most people, and his recent change in biology did not do him any favors. Being an eccentric drug addict had been bad enough, but now he was a whole new level of freak. Even if the man could stand him, there was the risk of him finding out about Sherlock’s condition. Either of them might kill the other out of fear or animal like instincts. But John seemed fairly intelligent and honest, if only because he was a poor liar. It seemed that living with Doctor Watson could work out quite nicely.

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked suddenly making his decision.

“I am sorry, what?” John asked, confusion etched in every line of his face.

“I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” Sherlock mentally slapped himself. The violin, really? That was probably the most ordinary thing about himself. He was going to turn into a bloody monster every month.

John asked him how he knew that he was interested in be flatmates and Sherlock answered distractedly. When John inquired further Sherlock remembered that he had left his crop in the morgue. Putting on his jacket Sherlock said, “I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we should to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash.” 

He made to leave but John called after him, “Is that it?”

Sherlock turned back to him, “Is that what?”

“We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat.” John asked with an incredulous smile.

“Problem?”

“We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name.” John said and Sherlock felt himself warm slightly. Ordinary people could be quite pleasant, especially when they gave him an excuse to show off.

Thinking he might as well give John the works Sherlock looked him in the eye, “I know you're an army doctor and you've been sent home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who is worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?”

Sherlock paused feeling rather pleased with himself and walked to the door before saying, “The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street.” He gave John an exaggerated wink and called, “Afternoon!” to Mike.

As Sherlock walked down the hall he felt a grin creep across his face. He popped into a storage closet and grabbed a few boxes of equipment before hailing a cab and heading to Baker Street.


	2. Sherlock's Second Moon

Sherlock looked over to where John sat glowering in his armchair. Minutes earlier the flat had rung with their shouts, an extensive and rather pointless argument about John being stupid and “who glues his flatmate’s favorite jumpers to the ceiling and lights them on fire?”

The detective was not sure if or how he should apologize to John and instead hovered in the kitchen. It was the day before his second full moon as a werewolf and he was nervous, and when he was nervous he tended to lash out. He did not want John to move out, not that he would ever admit it. To his cautious relief John did not seem angry enough to leave. Yet.

Sherlock’s phone beeped with a text from Angelo, “Come by the restaurant tomorrow.”

 

Sherlock left the flat hours latter and got a cab to the mill where he had been bitten. He took a key from his pocket and rolled it impatiently through his fingers. Raindrops pattered lightly on the roof of the cab as Sherlock bit his lip. He was loosing control of his act.

Upon arriving at the empty mill he walked hastily through the first few rooms to the machine room. He pulled the silver gate shut and locked himself in. Sherlock removed his clothes, shivering slightly from the cool drafts of the ancient building, and folded them into a neat pile. He carefully placed the key on top of them and pushed them through the bars. Feeling a bit foolish Sherlock sat shivering in the middle of the room. The rain had stopped and the sunset was casting an orange glow through the dusty windows. His heart rate increased in anticipation.

The scars on his chest began to burn and Sherlock curled up whimpering. He felt the muscles in his shoulders start to swell. There was a tingling sensation at the base of his spine and his legs contorted. He could not breath.

Panicking Sherlock brought his hands to his face as it morphed and he staggered up attempting to stand. Seconds later he pitched forward and landed on four paws as his ribs curved towards the ground cradling his organs.

A tiny voice in his mind invited him to rest. Let it take over, it purred, and he would not have to remember anything.

“No!” Sherlock said aloud, but it came out as a growl. He was Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective who lived on Baker Street. He had a pompous git for a brother and John Watson as a flatmate. He was a human being.

The voice in his mind fell silent and Sherlock sank to the floor, his curved ribs balanced awkwardly between his front legs. He licked his lips, scraping his tongue along several sharp teeth. He cursed himself for not bringing a mirror. He stood carefully and looked around the room which was lit only by the pearly glow of the moon.

Sherlock spotted a puddle on the far side of the room, water still dripping into it from a hole in the roof. As he padded over to the puddle Sherlock estimated that he was about four feet tall from the floor to his shoulder. His smirked to himself realizing that he was still taller than John if he could stand on his hind legs.

He reached the puddle and gazed at his reflection, and unfamiliar ice blue eyes gazed back at him from a furry face. Sherlock’s features were slimmer than an average wolf, his ears narrow and his coal back fur sleek against his body. The hair on one of his front legs was thinner where he had injected and barely noticeable bald spots dotted his chest where he had been bitten. He bared his teeth and admired his incisors remembering that a certain member of the forensics team was afraid of dogs. He would have to pay Anderson a visit in in the future.

Turning away from the puddle Sherlock tried and failed to stand on his hind legs. He jogged lightly around the equipment, but if he tried to run his legs got in the way of each other. Feeling his energy wane and hunger start to claw at his stomach Sherlock curled up under an ancient boiler and slept.

 

Sherlock’s back arched as the sun rose casting it’s pink glow around the room. His tail melted back into his spine and his legs straightened out. He grimaced when his fingers separated and elongated before pressing them to his chest as his ribs returned to their usual shape. Sherlock hurried back to where he had left his clothes and pulled them back between the bars. He clumsily texted Angelo as he dressed, inpatient to get some food.

 

When he arrived at Angelo’s there was another plate of raw meat waiting for him. He looked at Angelo who rolled his eyes and said, “Help your self” before devouring it. The older man chuckled fondly at Sherlock’s gracelessness and Sherlock frowned at him. He lowered the piece of meat from his mouth and said, “First of all, shut up. Second, I thought you were less than pleased that I was like you.”

“Assuming I am allowed to speak,” Angelo replied still chuckling, “it is not everyday that Sherlock Holmes, the youngest of the wealthy Holmes family, is stuffing his face with uncooked steak. I did not want you to be like me, but it is too late to whine about it. How was last night for you?”

Sherlock wiped his hands on the tablecloth in an attempt to get the grin off the other mans face, and to his annoyance was unsuccessful. “I kept my head. My motor skills need work but I think I have control.” He paused sniffing the air, “You could tell I was a werewolf by scent last month, why can’t I smell you?”

“You are progressing exceptionally well,” Angelo said kindly, “but that is a matter of biology, not will power. If you were a wolf right now you would recognize my sent but as a human you haven't been fully assimilated. There are very few scientists among our kind so the exact reason behind it is uncertain. I expect that you will advance or race significantly.”

“Always happy to be of use,” Sherlock said preparing to leave, “Who bit you?”

“Those bastards that mysteriously dropped dead when I was housebreaking.” Angelo growled.

“All three of them?” Sherlock asked, trying to imagine the situation.

“I told you that I was in debt to their boss and that he would send the attack dogs after me,” Angelo said darkly, “I was being literal. When you found me beaten to a pulp in that basement I refused to be examined for a reason. And then you found me a week latter with a butcher knife and the bodies.” Angelo paused breathing heavily, “They were going to bring me back to that cellar. Their master ‘needed some more pets’ and had not been too happy when I was rescued.”

Sherlock blinked, “This fills a few holes in that case, thank you. I do not regret getting you off that charge, even with this information.” he bit his lip then remembered what Angelo had said to him a month before, “Is this why you can not control your aggression around other wolves?”

“I never thought of that,” Angelo said with a dark chuckle, “but it make sense.”  
Sherlock turned to leave and Angelo called after him, “When I was out last night I saw a few cars watching your flat.”

“Probably my favorite brother.” Sherlock replied walking out the door.

 

When the cab dropped Sherlock back at Baker Street there were no signs of Mycroft’s cars. As he climbed the stairs he remembered John’s argument with him the day before and entered the flat as quietly as possible. Glancing up he noticed that the jumpers had been removed from the ceiling and he sighed wondering when he would be able to finish the experiment. 

With the intent to make tea he turned towards the kitchen and almost collided with John who was walking out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist. Sherlock moved out of the way and felt slightly amused as his flatmate’s previously carefree expression became stony. The fact that John was still angry with him was not great, but it intrigued him to observe the change in his composure, and John’s lack of clothes provided him with refined data.

John’s back straightened as he made his way through the flat, shoulders apart and legs stiff, proud and offensive. Sherlock smirked and made himself a cup of tea as John stalked off to change, sure he would be back. As he waited Sherlock sipped his tea and thought about John's scar. He had initially assumed that his flatmate had been facing the bullet, but having seen it for the first time he realized that it had been fired when John’s back had been turned.

John reappeared and sat across from Sherlock in his arm chair. He licked his lips slowly and regarded the detective. After a long few minutes of silence he finally spoke, “I think we need some rules.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and put his tea cup on the side table. “Rules?”

John was visibly nervous and Sherlock sighed inwardly waiting for him to get on with it. “I would think that we can agree not to touch each others possessions.” John said slowly.

“You threw out my mold samples last week,” Sherlock reminded him.

“That was intentional?” John asked looking alarmed, “Second rule, no biohazards in the flat.”

“No promises.” Sherlock said in a bored voice.

“No biohazards in the fridge?” John tried.

“Not going to happen.” Sherlock tutted.

John squinted at the man sitting across from him before leaning back looking tired, “I do not have a lot of-” he paused looking flustered, “money. I would prefer if you did not burn my clothes.”

“Is that the problem?” Sherlock asked, “I happen to come from a wealthy family and would not mind-”

“No!” John cut him off looking horrified, “I um, am looking for a job.”

Sherlock stood up re buttoning his jacket, “I promise never to burn, shred, dissolve, or harm your clothes in any way again. However, I can not promise that your health and safety will be as secure if you continue eating off the green plates.”

John looked nervous until he notices the smile Sherlock was trying to suppress.  
“Likewise,” John said trying and failing to look cross, “I can not guarantee yours if you continue to be a dick.”


	3. The Calm Before the Storm

Sherlock sighed as a creak from the staircase leading up to 221b betrayed Mycroft’s arrival. Seconds later the elder Holmes brother strolled into the flat not trying to hide his disdain. Sherlock walked from his broken windows and grabbed his violin on the way to his chair. His brother clearly wanted him to take a case he was to lazy to take care of himself, and once he got unbearable Sherlock planed to drive him out with some Bach.

Mycroft sat in the chair opposite him and Sherlock felt a twinge of annoyance. That was John’s chair.

“It seems like living with John Watson is doing you good.” Mycroft said looking his brother up and down.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and waited for his brother to speak again, to reveal his attack of the day.

“You know that your safety is my highest priority.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Can we skip your frankly alarming show affection and get to the part where you offer me a job, I decline, and you leave?”

Mycroft frowned and sat forward leaning on his umbrella, “I am worried about you.”

“I am clean!” Sherlock said exasperatedly, “I eat and sleep, what more do you want?”

“You have been meeting with a convicted murderer frequently over the last few months.” Mycroft said accusingly, “You disappear around the same time every 30 days. The day after more victims turn up limbless. You never did catch Jacqueline.”

Sherlock let out a bark like laugh, “You can not seriously think that I joined a gang of serial killers?”

Mycroft bit his lip. “No, but I do not know what to think.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock said, a glint in his eye, “tell me that you have this place bugged, I want a recording of that.”

“Now that my ignorance has been revealed and scorned can we move on to the second reason I am here?”

“By all means.” Sherlock said running his bow lightly across the violin’s strings.

“The Ministry of Defense is working on a confidential project and one of their employees, Andrew West, was found dead yesterday. He had full access to the new missile program being developed and had a USB drive of information on the matter. The USB was not found on the body, and if it is not recovered the security of the nation is compromised. Will you take the case?”

A door slammed and hurried footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs. “Sherlock?!” John’s panicked voice called from the door. Sherlock gave Mycroft an evil grin that disappeared as John entered the room.

“John” he plucks his violin before looking up at his brother, “I can’t.”

 

Sherlock and John walked briskly through the damp car park to an abandoned car surrounded by half of Scotland Yard. The strong metallic smell coming from the vehicle made Sherlock’s pupils dilate and he turned his head away from John so he would not see him lick his lips. The full moon being in the middle of his most important case was exceptionally inconvenient.

He ducked into the car to search the glove department resisting the urge to lick the seat, he refused to ingest anything human. Tomorrow night he planned to wander London for the first time, feeling he had mastered keeping his mind throughout the transformation process. He finally located a business card for ‘Janus Cars’ and ducked out of the car. 

 

Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently against the table. He knew he had to get a good distance away from Angelo’s restaurant before sunset, but he wanted to have food with him when he changed. Eventually a confused waiter brought out several large take away containers of raw meat and Sherlock snatched them from his hands. Almost trembling Sherlock walked out the door and hailed a cab to Bart’s.

The cab arrived at the hospital minutes before the sun would set and Sherlock got out of the vehicle and sprinted towards an alley next to the building. Before he made it to the wooden gates he collided with some one sending him sprawling on the pavement. Sherlock sat up with a groan and discovered the person he had collided with had been Molly. He hastily began stacking his containers of food as she got to her feet. One of the containers had burst open and Molly stared at the meat hanging out from the broken plastic.

She noticed Sherlock watching her and stammered, “I am sorry for walking into you.”

Something was wrong. Her hair was greasy on the right side of her head, she had been running her fingers through it all day. Her eyes were worried and she was under hydrated. “What happened with Jim?”

Molly was visibly startled by the question and muttered, “After I confronted him he disappeared. He...he hasn’t been online and did not come to work today.” before she turned from him and hurried away.

The sun was casting long shadows across the ground and Sherlock hurried to the alley. He took off his clothes and stored them carefully inside a crate and made to sit down before realizing he should open the containers of meat when he still had opposable thumbs.

Sherlock was prying the lid off the last container as the scars on his chest burned and he felt himself contorting. It was not painful, he thought to himself, but it was not pleasant either. Once he was settled in his fur covered body he returned his attention to the meat. Delighted that his teeth were finally that of a carnivore he devoured the dripping flesh. When the containers stood empty he pushed the gates open with his head and wandered down the street.

It was strange to see London from such a low point, and even stranger to smell it with his refined senses. He padded down the sidewalk keeping to the shadows, his fur helping him to hide from view. Fortunately there were not many people out that night. A little girl caught sight of him and delightedly shrieked, “Doggy!” Only to be hushed by her parents.

Sherlock walked a little faster wondering what would happen should someone see him. Would they call the police? What would the police do? Assuming that they would send anyone from their force he could easily outwit them, but there was a chance that they might get lucky. He could not pretend to be a dog, the idea was laughable. Wearing a collar with tags for Baker Street might buy him time should he be caught. Where he would hide it the rest of the time would be a problem. What if John found it? Why would the idea of John finding it bother him, he-

Sherlock stopped mid-step and hastily backtracked feeling as if he had hit a force field. Seconds latter he realized a scent had stopped him, it was so strong that it was almost a physical barrier. This must be a territory line Sherlock thought to himself as he sniffed the air.

Movement in the distance caught his attention. Squinting he made out a large bear like animal wandering in his direction. The animal appeared to be at ease but Sherlock suspected that was only because it had not noticed him and decided to head back to the hospital. As he loped back to the alley he realized that he had probably just seen Angelo.

 

 

“Mm, he's sweet. I can see why you like having him around. But then, people get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. Oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr Watson!”

Sherlock watched John back away from Moriarty and rage pumped through him. If only Jim had ended his game last night he would have ripped him apart. Now he was useless with a dozen snipers aiming at him.

The consulting criminal dusted off his suit, “Westwood. Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?

Sherlock feigned boredom, “Oh, let me guess, I get killed.”

Moriarty smirked, “Kill you? Um, no. Don't be obvious I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No no no no no, if you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.

“I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.”

Moriarty smiled in a way that made Sherlock nervous. “But we both know that's not quite true. Well, I better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat.”

“What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?”

“Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. Because I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would, and just a little bit...disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

Unable to believe that he and John were getting out alive Sherlock trained the gun on Moriarty’s retreating back, “Catch. You. Later.”

“No, you won't!” Jim called in a sing song voice as he exited the pool room.

Sherlock ran to John and tore off the explosives with frantic hands. “Are you alright?!”  
“I’m fine,” John panted before leaning against the wall and rubbing his neck with a gloved hand, “are you okay?”  
Sherlock was pacing trying to calm his frantic heart. “Me? Yeah. Fine. I'm fine. Fine. That, uh,” he absently scratching the back of his head with his gun, “thing that you, uh, you did that, um, you offered to do, that was, um, good.

“Well, I'm glad no one saw that.”

Sherlock looked at his friend. “Hm?”

“You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.” John said slowly.

Sherlock grinned at him, “People do little else.”


	4. Monsters and Murder

Rays of sunlight light shone through the windows of 221B onto what would have been a peaceful scene, but the sound of rapid gunfire interrupted the vision. Sherlock Holmes was slouched in his chair and was firing a SIG Sauer P226 at the spray painted smiley face on the wall. There was a click and then silence when the gun ran out of bullets and the detective groan and dropped his arm to the floor.

After the incident with Moriarty at the pool John announced that he and Sarah were going to New Zealand for a few weeks. Sherlock had shut himself in the flat since John had left even though it only heightened his misery. He slowly got to his feet and shuffled through the empty boxes of bullets. When he was unable to find ammunition he dragged himself to the stairs leading down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat and bellowed, “Bored!” even though he knew she had gone to her sister’s.

Pouting he texted Lestrade:  
“Bored.  
SH”

And received:  
“I already offered you 13 cases. Choose one.”  
before tossing his phone aside. John would not get back until the day of the next full moon and Sherlock growled in frustration. It had been three weeks and he still had another to wait. He did not even have the motivation to play his violin

The detective shuffled through a bin of past evidence and removed a small rubber ball. He raised his arm to pelt it at the wall when his phone lit up. His interest sparked when he noticed it was an unknown number. A blocked unknown number.

He opened the message:  
“Idle minds go to waste, you don’t even have your tail to chase.  
Johnny boy has left you and you wont take the DI’s case.  
But can something more personal, perhaps your divide from the human race.  
And the location of the woman who got you in this mess in the first place.  
Get you out of your den, make you show your face?”

Once he had finished reading he received another message from the blocked number:  
“She resides in a place where life and death was planned  
Where humans always had the upper hand.  
And beasts were born and burned with their master’s brand  
Later to be killed and have their pelts tanned.  
Finally abandoned when industry took over the customer’s demand  
And now stands rotting, unmanned.”

Sherlock licked his lips slowly and walked to his room. He began changing out of his bathrobe and into his usual out fit, pausing to trace the scars on his chest. So Jacqueline, the one who turned him, the serial killer, was camped out at an old farmstead. It was so simple, so easy to decipher the text, it occurred to him he was walking into a trap. He buttoned the last button of his shirt and pulled on his coat, if that were the case, be it.

 

A cab dropped him off in a village a few miles away from the barn he suspected the message had been referring to. A quick look around revealed his choices of transport. He could hitch a ride with someone leaving a near by shop but would rather not have any witnesses, regardless what would happen when he found Jack. There was a bus parked out side a petrol station, easy enough to steal, but the attention it would attract would be inconvenient. Sherlock remembered the last time he had stolen a bus, John had not been too pleased. At least this one was devoid of tourist.

A motor bike parked outside a dark house caught his attention. The drive way next to it was empty and had been for a few days. The bike had its keys hidden in the tail pipe and Sherlock grabbed them and started the engine. It purred to life and he drove off, coat flapping behind him.

 

He arrived at a dilapidated barn and jumped off the bike. The gravel in the driveway was flattened and Sherlock suspected there must be a car behind the building, recently parked. That was a good sign that Jacqueline was here. He hesitated at the door, realizing for the first time he did not know what to do. Take her down was the logical course of action, but he had not brought a weapon. This was not for revenge either, for some reason Sherlock did not resent her for making him a monster.

A gunshot jolted him from his thoughts and he kicked the door open. The barn was dark, the only light coming from the door he had opened and the one swinging shut from the opposite side. Sherlock ran across the floor, the smell of mold and decomposing hay assaulting his nose, and heard the sound of an engine start and a car drive off.

He could make out a human shape lying on the ground and hastily pulled a window open. Light shined over the body of Jack, blood spreading across the front of her shirt. He hastened to open all the windows before kneeling over the corpse. The bullet had gone straight threw Jack’s body and Sherlock looked around. He saw it lodged in the wall a few feet away and the surface that was not covered in blood shone silver. One silver bullet, one dead werewolf.

Sherlock turned his attention to the shooter’s escape rout. The rotting wooden door had been pushed open with a few gloved fingertips and with the aid of his magnifying glass he discovered his or her hands had been trembling. A nervous assassin, but one who could aim perfectly when shooting a living being. Delayed reaction.

He carefully pushed the door open and found the grass and gravel offered more clues. The grass had been flattened but not broken in small patches, suggesting a short and light body type. The gravel held clearer foot prints, confirming the previous deduction and revealing that the shooter had probably been a woman.

She could have been a potential victim who got hold of Jack’s gun. How had she gotten into the car? She could have taken the keys from Jack at gunpoint, but the ammunition was not random. Could the shooter have driven to this location just to shoot Jack?

Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade his location and that there had been a murder before calling Angelo. He tapped his foot impatiently waiting for Angelo to pick up, and when he heard a genial, “Hello Sherlock!” he said, “Listen, Jacqueline just been murdered. I got a text about her location and walked in a second after she was shot. The bullet was made of silver.”

“You need to get out of there,” the other man said, a hint of panic in his voice.

“No I am fine, the shooter took off,” Sherlock replied, “I don’t think this was random, do you?”

There was a sigh from the other line and Sherlock could imagine the man sinking into a chair, “No it was not random. It sounds like we have a hunter on our hands.”

“A hunter?”

“Yes a hunter. A monster hunter. They see all beings that are not humans as extremely dangerous and tend to kill first, ask questions latter. Unless of course they need information, then they torture.”

“Why didn't you mention this before?”

“They are not to common in Britain, but that doesn't matter, we need to keep a low profile for a couple of weeks to be safe. They never stay in one place for long, but if we try to take one out they will swarm us. Now for gods’ sake get your self away from Jacqueline's body!”

Sherlock hung up the phone and got on the motor bike, driving off.

~~~~

Oh god, Sherlock had been at the barn.

~~~~

Sirens blared as half a dozen police cars drove past Sherlock heading in the opposite direction. The last one in the queue turned abruptly to follow Sherlock. He pulled the bike over to the side of the road as the car rolled up next to him.

“Problem officer?” Sherlock asked looking down at Lestrade.

The DI got out of the car and shook his head at the consulting detective, “I offer you thirteen cases and you go off and find your own murder.”

“Its not like your lot would have found her,” Sherlock retorted, “an abandoned barn in the middle of nowhere. The bullet is stuck in the wall. I thought you should know because I doubt Anderson can find it on his own. If you will excuse me I have to go.”

“What, so you can go hole up in Baker Street?”

“Not immediately,” Sherlock said revving the bike’s engine, “first I need to return this, its owner will be home in ten minutes.”

Sherlock sped off leaving an exasperated Lestrade behind.

~~~

Sherlock would figure it out. She had hoped he would not have been interested, he had not left his flat in days. What had driven him out the day she deiced to toughing up and go on a hunt? Her hands fumbled with the combination lock on her locker and she threw her jacket onto a hook.

There was the sound of splintering wood and Molly whirled around, gun drawn. The woman sitting with her boots on the table in the back corner of the room raised an eyebrow, “Hello to you too” and continued boring a hole into the table with a large knife.

Molly stared at her sister and lowered the gun, “Mary.”

Mary smiled, “Mary Morstan, for now.”

Silence fell between them and Molly bit her lip. She had not seen her sister for years, The only thing she could think to ask was, “Hows mum?” and she was not sure she wanted the answer.

“She's fine,” Mary said sliding her legs off the table and standing up, “but lets talk about you. Are you hunting again?”

“No.” Molly said quietly.

“Just took your gun out for a walk then?”

To avoid answering Molly changed the subject, “You are suppose to be in America. What brought you to London?”

“Scotland actually. Me and a few friends were hunting a windigo when it hooked up with a family of ghouls and got on a plane. I was suppose to stay back, but one of the other hunters has an extreme phobia of planes and I filled in for him.”

Molly felt a flare of panic. Hunters in London. She would rather go to jail for murder than be the reason the world’s only consulting detective was found dead in a ditch. “Are your friends still here?”

Mary took advantage of Molly’s distraction and snatched the gun from her hands. “Nope, they headed back to the US last night but I could not pass up the chance to visit my little sister. Now lets see what we have here,” she removed the magazine and examined the ammunition, “silver bullets. Werewolf or shifter?”

“It doesn't matter,” Molly muttered snatching her gun back from Mary and storing it in her bag.

“Molls...”

Molly ignored her sister, the last time she had been called that was at her father’s death bed. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes. She had not seen anyone from her family for thirteen years. ‘Could not pass up the chance to see my little sister.’ Right.

“Molls what aren’t you telling me.”

....

“Did it bite you?”

“No!” Molly snapped. As she glared at her sister she realized what she had to do to get her out of London during the full moon. Play her weakness, and luckily for her Mary had the most fatal weakness for a hunter. Emotional connection.

Molly put her face in her hands, “I am sorry, I have been wound tight for a while now.” She looked up and cleared her throat. “Maybe I could go back to America with you for a week or two, visit mum, blow off some steam.”

Mary did not seemed convinced, “Do you remember what a week in our life is like?”

Of course I remember, Molly thought to herself, thats why I haven't gone back. “I think I can last.”

~~~

Sherlock ordered another bulk package of bullets online and glance over at his wall which was peppered with bullet holes. His phone buzzed with a text from John. He had been getting a few from his friend over the last two day and suspected that his relationship with Sarah was going down hill. As he typed a response a nagging voice in his head reminded him that he was no closer to finding Jack’s killer. He silenced it and hit send. He would have John back in two days and he always helped him think. My conductor of light. Sherlock smirked imagining what John would think of the title.

 

Sherlock nervously paced around 221B waiting for John to walk through the door. His flight had arrived at Heathrow airport an hour ago and he was expecting to hear him walking up the stairs any second. His head throbbed reminding him about his transformation latter that night.

There was a creak from the stairs as Sherlock was opening the bottle of pain killers and he looked up to see a very hungover John Watson in the door way.

“What have you done to yourself,” Sherlock said softly with a hint of concern, “you are a doctor, you should know better.”

“Uh, I ingested copious amounts of alcohol because I recently ended a relationship.” he replied rubbing the back of his neck, “but I am sure you figured that out on your own.”

“Based off how frequently you have been texting me over the last few days after two weeks of silence I-”

“Ah shut up and pass me those.” John groaned gesturing to the bottle in Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock handed it over and watched John shuffle to the kitchen and get a glass of water. He was stiff, either from sleeping on the couch yesterday or the plane last night. He deduced it was probably both when John returned to the room and sunk into his chair. The left side of his jumper and left pant leg was covered in a considerable amount of cat hair compared to his right. Noticing his squint Sherlock pulled the curtains shut and received a grumbled, “Thanks.”

Sherlock sat in his chair and looked at John. Unsurprisingly his eyes were tired and he had a bit of stubble on his face. A small stain on his collar in addition to the cat hair revealed that he had been wearing the outfit for more than one day with out changing, an extreme contrast from the doctor’s usual neat tendencies.

After a long time John spoke, “So what did you do when I was away?”

“Nothi- just a murder.”

“ ‘A murder’ as in one?”

“Yep.” Sherlock said studying his nails.

John smiled faintly, “Slow month?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Boring month.”

“There is a game on this after noon, the pub is going to offer free rounds if Britain wins.”

Sherlock blinked, “What?”

“I though we could go out for drinks with Mike and Lestrade.”

“You are hungover, you can not seriously be considering consuming more alcohol.”

“It is the Watson family curse.” John said with a dark laugh, “Are you free?”

“No I have a case.”

“Brilliant, where?”

“This is something I need to do alone.” Sherlock said quickly, regretting his tone instantly as John’s face fell.

“Oh.” John looked crestfallen, “Well I will give Mike and Greg your regards.”

 

The evening was going smoothly, that was until Sherlock noticed an unfamiliar scent. He had eaten a few trays of meat after his transformation and was walking down an empty street when a strange aroma caught his attention. It was coming from an alley and Sherlock decided to investigate.

At the end off the alley an unfamiliar furry mass was huddled trembling. It occurred to Sherlock that he was looking at another werewolf. This werewolf was more muscular than him, the width of its body three times the width of his own. It had a wiry golden coat and was devoid of any distinguishing markings, at least from this angle.

Unsure of the protocol for approaching another werewolf Sherlock let out a questioning whine and the thing whipped around to stare at him. It had wide terrified eyes. Insane eyes.

First night. Angelo’s words rung in his head ‘The first time a werewolf transforms, which is triggered when the full moon is in the sky and does not matter whether or not the man can see it, it is as good as rabid.’ Sherlock backed away as the creature began to growl. Once he was a few feet away he turned to run but the thing landed heavily on his back and bit into his shoulder. Sherlock let out a roar of pain and shock and reared back, the other let go in surprise.

Sherlock flexed his shoulder and winced. It was bleeding but the bite had not gone too deep. He observed his opponent as the creature slowly approached him. It was clumsy and seemed unsure as to how to work its body, not surprising it being its first moon. It favored its right leg and lipped, clearly from a wound, probably one it received when human. A scar was barely visible on its left wither, mostly covered by fur.

By the time the creature charged him Sherlock had a plan of attack. He bit into his opponent's dominate leg and slammed his body into the scarred shoulder. Sherlock twisted his head sharply and the other werewolf let out a yelp as it was flipped onto its back.

Sherlock looked at the thing pinned under him. It was momentarily stunned from its recent acquaintance with the pavement and its eyes were unfocussed. What now? He could just kill it, that was the most sensible option. Sherlock licked his lips. No, that would not do. There was a gate at the end of this alley like the one where he went to transform. He could shut it behind him and allow this person to be contained until the sun rose. Thats what John would do, think of the person locked away somewhere in this vicious, hungry thing.

The werewolf was coming round and Sherlock pressed on its throat with a paw until it was on the edge of consciousness before bolting for the gate. As Sherlock pushed the gate shut the last thing he saw was the thing gasping for breath and trying to drag itself to its feet.

 

Sherlock did not return to Baker Street immediately after changing back and instead when to Bart’s lab. It was empty and he found a note from Molly saying she would be back latter that week. He took a moment to examine the bite on his shoulder. Unlike the bite on his chest it was the size of a dog bite, and Sherlock concluded it must have been scaled down to fit his human form. He re-buttoned his shirt before rooting through the freezer until he found a vile of Jack’s blood. He tucked it into a coat pocket and headed back to the flat.

 

The smell of cooking drifted down the stairs and Sherlock frowned. He heard the shower running as he walked into the kitchen to find two empty containers of frozen meatloaf in the trash and picked one up to read the label, (Family Sized Mix of the Meats You Love!) before looking in the stove. The meatloaves were cooking on a newly bought baking sheet. As far as he knew John was a vegetarian, and what possessed him to do this was a mystery.

He put the vile of blood into the fridge and absently remembered that he had left his phone on his chair last night. He strode over and picked it up. His raised his eyebrows when the screen lit up. Twenty missed texts and seven missed calls from Lestrade.

2:02 pm  
“Why didn't you come to the pub?”

2:20 pm  
“You might have enjoyed it.”

3:15 pm  
“John is already drunk and it has only been an hour.”

3:50 pm  
“His phone died so I am in charge of nagging you.”

4:07 pm  
“He is singing.”

5:58 pm  
“He is taking his time in the loo.”

6:10 m  
“Starting to get worried”

6:27 pm  
“Johns gone”

6:28  
“I am calling you”

6:30 pm  
“Pick up damn it!”

6:32 pm  
“He was abducted Sherlock I just saw the security tape”

6:38 pm  
“Answer your bloody phone”

6:41 pm  
“They do not look like your brother’s people”

7:00 pm  
“I have people out looking but there is no sign of him”

7:14 pm  
“You had better be doing something clever”

7:40 pm  
“I just called your bother who had the ability to ANSWER HIS FUCKING PHONE ANd he does not know where John is either”

7:45 pm  
“dont you care at all?”

Sherlock stared at the glowing screen and listened to the sound of water running in the bathroom, horror welling in his chest. His heart filled with dread as he imagined what was waiting behind the door. He remembered a past case were a man would bind his victims and leave them face down in their own bath’s with the water running. Or the more artistic murderer who would create fountains out of her victims by-

Sherlock shuddered and reached for the gun and a fresh box of ammunition. Steeling himself he loaded it and stood outside the bathroom door. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for the worst before kicking the door open and holding the gun in front of him.

“What the hell Sherlock!” John shouted trying to cover himself. He had planned to replace the clear shower curtains, he should have anticipated a walk in.

Sherlock stared blankly at a very alive John Watson as relief flooded him. A second latter a shouted order of “Out!” and a bar of soap lobbed at his head was enough for the detective’s brain to send a message to his legs and he left John furious and blushing.

Sherlock walked back to his chair and texted Lestrade, “Johns fine.” and sat down waiting for his friend. John walked out of the bathroom a few minutes latter and checked on the meatloaf. He turned off the stove and put a large slice on a plate before sitting in his chair.

“You should have come to the pub.”

“What do you remember?”

John considered his reply as he picked up a bit of the meatloaf with his fork and chewed. Sherlock noticed a slight bulge under the right sleeve of his dressing gown and his shoulder prickled.

“I was with Mike and Greg and I got drunk faster than usual. I went to the loo and when I was washing my hands I noticed a gun pointed at my head. It was....the bar tender. He must have done something to my drink. Anyway he lead me out to a car and then I blacked out. I don’t remember anything until I woke up in some alley this morning,” John took another bite, “I had a wound in my arm, a bit like a dog bite, but I don’t know how I got it. I found a bag of my clothes in the alley and went to the store before getting a cab home and taking a shower,” John took another bite, “you know the rest.”

“Have you interacted with any dogs within the last few weeks?” Sherlock inquired sharply.

“No.” John replied, confused at Sherlock’s urgency.

“Aren’t you a vegetarian?”

“Yeah,” John said taking another bite and swallowing it before looking even more confused, “Wait a sec.”

“Why would a vegetarian suddenly buy two meatloaves and a baking sheet specifically for their use?”

“I...”

“Any contact this month, blood, urine, saliva, anything?”

“I mean I was with Sarah, but what would that have to do with my shift in diet preference?”

Sherlock gave him a ‘think’ look and John chewed his lip before blushing. “There was something else,” he admitted, “The night Moriarty had me at the pool. The snipers where aiming at me and he was explaining my role and,” John looked away from him, “he was smelling my neck and I thought, I dunno, that he was going to kiss me. But then he walked behind me,” John licked his lips, his face glowing red, “and he bit me.”


	5. The Pact

Sherlock stared at him, “Moriarty bit you?”

“Yeah,” John said looking flustered, “but why does that matter?”

“There is only one explanation!” Sherlock exclaimed jumping from his chair, “He must be one too.”

“Hold up I am not getting you,” John interrupted, “one what?”

Sherlock looked down at him, “You and I had a fight last night. You injured my shoulder and I your arm. I would love to elaborate but I doubt you will believe me based of the face you are making.”

“Sherlock,” John said in a concerned voice, “you aren't making any sense.”

Sherlock sighed. He would have to tell him. “You woke up in an alley this morning?”

“Yeah” John replied.

“The one two streets away from Bart’s?” Sherlock continued.

“Yes. How on earth did you deduce that?”

Sherlock sunk back into his chair. “I didn't. I contained you in that alley.”

“Do I want to know why I wasn't wearing clothes? Wait, did you get the bartender to drug me?” Anger was creeping into John’s voice.

“I did not have the bartender drug you,” Sherlock promised. “I shut you in there because you were dangerous.”

“Explain.”

Sherlock rose taking off his coat and jacket. When he started to unbutton his own shirt John’s eyes widened, “Uh, Sherlock?”

The detective ignored him and slid the shirt off one shoulder to reveal the scabbing bite wound. “I should have realized it sooner,” Sherlock said quietly, “you were rubbing your neck at the pool and when you got back yesterday. I assumed the irritation was from your sleeping situation,” he began rebuttoning his shirt, “but it is where you were bitten. You could feel it burning, as if it would char through your skin. Your hangover helped disguise your other symptoms from me.”

John looked lost,“Sherlock I do not know where you are going with this.”

Sherlock looked into his friend’s eyes, “There is no easy way to convince a man like yourself that fairy tales are real. In fact it took me a while to convince myself despite the evidence I had at hand. I speak now with the uttermost sincerity, John Watson, you are a werewolf.”

John stared at Sherlock before giving him an uncertain smile, “You cant be serious.”

“One hundred percent.” Sherlock replied solemnly.

“You of all people know the difference between fiction and fact,” John accused, imagining a young Sherlock telling distraught classmates that Father Christmas wasn't real, “why would you believe in...in werewolves?”

Sherlock sighed, “Among other reasons I saw you in that alley last night and fought you. I would have taken a picture but it is impossible to use a mobile with paws.”

John still looked unconvinced. Sherlock bit his lip, how could he prove it to him. He suddenly remembered the that the records on Jacqueline Hart were still at Bart’s. “I would show you my original bite wound,” Sherlock said with a twitch of his lip, “but I fear you will shoot me if I make to remove my shirt again.” John flushed, “So I will settle for more concrete evidence. Get dressed, we are going to the morgue tonight to get records on my attacker.”

~~~

Molly sat away from her mother and sister as they spoke in low voices. Seeing her mother again after thirteen year had been....strange. They had never been close. Her mother was bold and merciless, an attitude that Mary adopted. She was much more like her father had been. Gentle and reserved, but brave. He had always been brave.

Molly jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder, “Are you up for a hunt today?” Mary asked with a grin.

“What for?”

“One of our guys spotted a few demons dow-.” Mary started to say when there was a urgent rap on the door. Their mother emerged from another room and casually grabbed a knife from a book case before answering it.

Molly watched curiously as her mother shut the door holding what appeared to be a rolled up poster and hurry back to the kitchen. She turned back to her sister to inquire about the demons but was surprised at Mary’s expression. She looked apprehensive and excited. Molly also recognized something darker, something that had always scared her about her sister. Mary was looking forward to what ever was coming, what ever was on the poster would provide her with a hunt she would relish.

“Werewolves.” Mary said quietly.

“What about them?” Molly asked quickly thinking of Sherlock.

“We have been have noticed a very strange behavior among werewolves,” Mary said her eyes gleaming “I will let mom explain.” before leading Molly back to the kitchen.

Their mother looked up from a large map spread across the table and observed her daughters standing in the door way. She sighed, “It is so nice to have the family back together.”

“Mols wants to know about the werewolves,” Mary said ignoring her sisters annoyance at the nick name.

Their mother nodded and motioned them closer to the map, “Across the globe our furry friends have not only been attacking us, but each other.” she gestured to the sharpie dots across the map, “as you know werewolves are usually solitary. As of the last full moon there have been at least thirty new reports.”

“The point is someone is baiting them against each other.” Mary concluded.

Molly frowned, “I don't understand how this is a problem. Werewolves are monsters, so why do you care if they are killing each other?”

“Because in more than half of theses incidents they have been locked in full restaurants and function halls.” her mother replied, “We don't have any leads so we are gathering other hunters to camp out region by region and take out werewolves. We don't know another way besides a full out extermination attempt.”

“I forgot to mention this earlier,” Mary said beaming, “but we are starting off in England. There is less ground to cover than in the US and we have heard of a few sightings. It would be great if you would work with us.”

Molly felt her heart stop. Her face must have conveyed her distress because Mary’s happiness seemed to fade, “Whats wrong?”

Molly bit her lip and motioned for his sister to follow her out of the room. When they were alone she said, “You just want to go in and kill them?”

“Yeah,” Mary replied, “I figured you would like the idea.”

Molly could not meet her eyes, “They are human too.”

Mary’s features hardened, “So thats your problem. Is that why you let that one get dad?”

Molly looked at her sister in horror, “I ran out of bullets.”

“No,” Mary said with contempt, “you have never been strong enough to be a hunter.”

Tears stung at the corner of Molly’s eyes, “Please wait one more moon. Give me a chance. I know someone who can help us.”

Their mother walked in and shot a questioning look at Mary.

Mary’s expression changed immediately and she smiled at her mother. “I was just thinking, maybe we can start the hunt in Alaska instead.

~~~

Sherlock walked into Bart’s followed by John, who was looking at him like he was concerned for his mental health. The detective scowled as he looked through the folders trying to find the one for Jacqueline. It was missing. He slammed the draw shut and turned to scrutinize the room. His eyes fell on the note from Molly and he quickly dialed her number.

The phone rang for a few seconds before she picked up. Sherlock heard a slightly choked “hello” from the other line. “Molly,” he said quickly, “go some were you can speak freely.”

There was a minute of silence and then Molly’s shaky voice returned, “Okay.”

“Why did you take Jacqueline Hart’s file from the morgue, and assumedly with you to America, some where in the midwest, based off the slight accent you are currently speaking in?”

“I...I wanted to look it over,” Molly replied uncertainly.

“I need you to bring it back now.” Sherlock said, wondering why Molly sounded so miserable.

“The next flight from here to London doesn’t leave for three hours and it will probably be completely booked.” She said quickly, and Sherlock realized she must be tracking flights with her phone. Molly was eager to get away from where ever she was.

“Plan to leave on that flight,” Sherlock said, “don’t worry I will get you a seat.”

Before he could hang up Molly added, “I might need two seats.”

“Hm?”

“I have a client for you.”

~~~

Molly put her phone in her pocket. Why did Mary have to be so damn manipulative? She remembered when they were kids how she use to be able to convince people to hand over there belongings like it was nothing or let them stay the night when their parents were out hunting. Back then she had thought it was just a helpful skill, but now she was annoyed that Mary was trying to play her and her mother.

Mary was waiting for her, “So you know some one who can fix this?”

“Don’t act like the last five minutes did not happen,” Molly said shakily, “and yes. We have a flight to catch in a few hours, pack your stuff.” before walking to her old bedroom and slumping onto the bed. Was she making a horrible mistake bringing Mary with her?

~~~

Sherlock and John left Bart’s and got into a cab. “I am not saying they are,” John murmured, “but if werewolves are real, what else? Dragons? Ghosts?”

Sherlock considered his words, “I don't know. Legends of dragons span back centuries and appear in many cultures, so they could be. As for ghosts, I am less confident. We have both been surrounded by death, even before we met, and I have never had a supernatural experience.”

John laughed and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “No, its just that,” John giggled, “Imagine if all the spirits you pissed off could come after you. You have enough to deal with the living.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said with a small smile.

 

Bart’s was quiet as night fell the next day and Sherlock paced the floor waiting for Molly. John was resting his head on his arms and kept drifting in and out of sleep. When the door clicked open John sat up with a grumble. The sisters walked in and John blinked when he saw Mary and hastily straightened his shirt.

Sherlock turned to face them. “Mary this is Sherlock Holmes,” Molly said with a nervous smile to her sister before turning to Sherlock, “this is my sister Mary.”

The detective gave Mary a nod and looked expectantly at Molly.  
“Can we have a word in private?” Molly asked and Sherlock reassessed the situation. So the sister was part of Molly’s anxiety. She was shorter than Molly but much older with short blond hair. She wore a very convincing friendly mask over her cold nature.

“A quick one.” He replied.

They walked out of the room and Mary glanced around, noticing John for the first time. “John Watson.” He said hastily standing up and walking over to shake her hand.

“Mary.” she said with a smile.

 

Once they had left the lab Molly handed over the file, “I know about you.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “Know what?”

“About...you know.” She gestured to the file in his hand.

“I did not kill her, I just found the body.”

“Of course you didn’t kill her, “Molly muttered feverishly, “I mean, you know.”

“Apparently I don't.”

“I know that you are a werewolf.”

Sherlock stood in stunned silence. “How?”

“I saw your flat a few months ago when you ripped it to shreds. You left your DNA sample in the lab and I ran an extra test. And last month I saw you with all that meat.”

“I cant even get John to believe they exist but some how you are on board.”

“Why did you tell John? Aren't you worried about how he will react?”

Sherlock decided to trust Molly, “He got bit last month.”

“Well thats just fantastic!” she suddenly looked hysterical. “If you can’t solve the case I have for you by the next full moon you should plan to move to...” she paused trying to find a good ending but gave up, “any where but here.”

“Molly?”

“Some one is making werewolves fight, tricking them to cross into each other's territories or locking them in with people. The hunting community, have you hear of hunters? They want to start slaughtering wolves instead of bothering to find the root of the problem. And they want to start off here.”

Sherlock had never really empathized with Molly, usually viewing her as a convenient way to examine bodies, but he recognized they had a common goal. Save John Watson. “I take it your sister is part of the ‘hunting community.’ ”

Molly nodded, “She is giving you a chance to solve it.”

Sherlock absently picked up a scalpel and began twirling it trough his long fingers, “I think I already have,” he placed the scalpel back on the table, “we need to pay your ex a visit.”

 

Molly and Sherlock reentered the lab to find Mary and John chatting. “Come on,” Sherlock said putting his arm around John's shoulders and steering him away.

“Sher- what are doing?” John protested as Sherlock dragged him from the room.

“Getting you away from someone who would gladly murder you,” Sherlock said in a low voice as he succeeded to get his friend into the hall. “No need to thank me.”

“Mary?” John said incredulously as the left the hospital.

“I will explain when we get back to the flat.”

 

John and Sherlock sat opposite each other with a medical folder and a folder bearing the emblem of Scotland Yard in between them. Sherlock opened the police folder an pulled out a picture of a woman. “This is Jacqueline Hart. She was a well known serial killer with an unusual tag. She kept trophies, usually limbs, and was at one point thought to be a cannibal. I discovered her location roughly two months before I met you,” he handed the picture to John and picked up the second folder, “I went to confront her and was knocked unconscious. I did not see my attacker but woke up in the hospital.”

Sherlock took photos out of the medical folder and handed them over. The first one was a high res photo from the crime scene, showing the detective lying in a puddle of his own blood. “The idiots probably thought I was dead when they took that, otherwise they would have just sent me to the hospital. Lestrade is the one who got me an ambulance. Look at the next picture.”

The next picture was of his cleaned wound before it was dressed. Despite his years of experience as an army doctor John felt his stomach turn. He put down the pictures and looked at Sherlock. “Alright I believe you. Why does Mary want to kill me?”

“She is part of a group of people called hunters. They track down supernatural beings and exterminate them.”

“She does not need to find out that I am not human,” John muttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course John had taken a liking to a murderer. “I am afraid she does. Moriarty is at the root of a problem that could potentially bring about our slaughter. I think he had you kidnapped and intend us to fight until one of us had killed the other. I am afraid that we need Mary’s help and that she needs ours.”

“Can we ask Mycroft for help?” John asked.

Sherlock gave him a look, “My brother-”

John put his hands up, “Nope, I got it, forget I asked.”

~~~

“You want to work with a werewolf?!” Mary asked looking a Molly as if she were mad.

“Yes,” Molly said calmly, “you have no idea what we are up against.”

“Oh yes, and this brilliant plan is to take place on the full moon. What could possible go wrong?” Mary muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“European Werewolves are not like America ones. Their origin is a male werewolf and a female skin changer.”

“What difference does that make?”

“They aren't dangerous.” Molly said. Well most of them weren't. “They keep their minds, or else have the temperament of a dog.”

Mary shook her head. “And he wants to meet and plan with us?”

“Tomorrow.” Molly said, “and that reminds me. He is helping us with a job. He is an ally. He is not who you are hunting.”

“Right I am going to bed.” Mary replied before stalking to the guest bedroom.

~~~

They decided to meet at Bart’s rather than at Baker Street. The staff break room was always empty in the afternoon and though it was cramped they situated themselves. Mary greeted John warmly but hardly acknowledged Sherlock. Molly smiled nervously as they sat around the rickety table.

 

Sherlock steepled his fingers looked between the sisters. He had to tread carefully, and he noted the gun hidden under Mary’s coat. He smiled slightly when he remembered John had his as well. Two negotiators and two soldiers.

“We are here to discuss the situation concerning Moriarty and his threat to the public,” Sherlock began, “and not to discuss personal opinions. The fact remains that not only is he organizing werewolf attacks, he is one himself and is spreading the condition. He is one of the cleverest men alive and as werewolf he is is mostly likely the deadliest. No one person, be it werewolf or human, can take him out alone.”

“I have a proposition for you Mary.” Sherlock continued, “Any werewolves” at the plural she shot a surprised and disappointed look at John, “will aid you in the capture, and if you desire, eradication of James Moriarty.”

“But?” Mary inquired licking her lips.

“After it is done you are to leave the United Kingdom and never return. You are to tell the hunters that the problem has been resolved. You will do all that is in your power to prevent hunters from coming here. And you are not to harm John or I.”

“I will never harm a college.” Mary said coolly, “Agreed.”


	6. Gun Shots, Siblings, and Sentiment

A week before the full moon Sherlock was scrutinizing Google Maps. John walked up behind him and frowned, “You still haven't figured out where Moriarty will be?”

“I have people looking, ah,” Sherlock’s phone chimed and he read the message before grinning up at John, “Ne voulez aller sur un voyage?”

“What?”

“There have been several noise complaints in an area that lines up with Moriarty’s jobs around the full moon. I think we have his spot.”

“Which is?”

Sherlock did a quick search on his laptop and turned the screen to John. “The Castle of Mesen,” the detective said proudly as John looked at the broken down building, “it is located in Belgium so we will need to book a flight.”

“If Mary and Molly are bringing weapons air port security could be a problem. Wouldn't it be better to drive and take a boat?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock mused, “I will have to talk with them about that.” Sherlock shut his laptop and turned looking John in the eye, “With that out of the way lets talk about you.”

“Hm, what about me?”

“I am not sure you should come.”

“Yeah, well too bad, I am.” John replied defiantly.

Sherlock sighed as he looked at his determined friend, “It is only your second time changing. I had a difficult enough time keeping my head and if there are any complications with you-”

“I’m coming.”

 

They arrived in Belgium without incident and divided into two cabs, deciding to be dropped off a few streets away because they already looked suspicious with their bags. Sherlock and John each had a drawstring bag with a extra set of clothes and Mary and Molly were sharing a duffel bag of assorted equipment.

Once they had regrouped they casually made their way towards the castle and stopped in a restaurant for dinner.

“We still haven't decided whether or not to enter the castle before or after John and I change.” Sherlock said in a low voice as he watched a waiter walk past.

“Why would we wait?” Molly asked.

“Cover of darkness.” Mary said looking through her menu, “If we go in first we risk being seen. If we wait until after dark we risk someone noticing two giant wolves wandering the street.”

“It might be easier to get over the fence as a wolf.” John suggested but Sherlock shook his head.

“There is a chance fur might get left behind, and the risk of your transformation going wrong.” The detective explained, “There is a section of relatively low fencing along one side. I think we should go as soon as we are done eating.”

Everyone at the table nodded and set about flipping through their menus. John quietly got Molly’s attention and handed her a slip of paper. “In case anything goes wrong.” He whispered. A smiling waitress came over to take their orders. Molly and Mary ordered meals high in carbs and sugar but John ordered an all meat dish.

“Given up the vegetarian lifestyle?” Sherlock smirked after he ordered the same thing.

The table was silent until the food arrived. Sherlock watched as John devoured his meal smiling slightly and managing not to do the same.

 

The group carefully jumped the fence hoping that Moriarty was not keeping an eye out. They hurried to the building, but most of the ceiling had collapsed in the section nearest and they stumbled through the wreckage to a more secure area. The shadows cast from the half standing walls gave an ominous atmosphere as the sun set.

“Wait a minute,” John said when he noticed Sherlock remove his scarf and coat and begin on his shirt buttons, “why are you stripping?”

“Its either this or ripping out of them,” Sherlock said in a bored voice, “and I like my trousers.”

Molly giggled as realization dawned upon John. “Well you can do what you like, I am going to wait in a room. Alone.” He opened a door to the left of the corridor and turned to Molly, “Don't let anyone in until he is furry.” before slamming it shut.

“Not even me?’” Sherlock called laughing with Molly and coaxing a smile from Mary.

“Sherlock Holmes if you open this door-” John’s voice fell silent and Sherlock felt the familiar burning sensation across his chest. As he curled up on the floor he was faintly aware of Mary and Molly’s scrutiny. The sound of tearing as hair spread across his back informed him that he had forgotten to take off his pants. He would have patted himself on the back for remembering a spare but he was preoccupied by his screaming muscles. He whined as new teeth ripped through his gums. It had not felt like anything last time he had changed and he could not understand the pain.

Sherlock lay panting on the ground and Molly hurried over to kneel by his head. “Are you okay?” She asked uncertainly. Her hand twitched as she made to pet him but thought better of it.

Sherlock nodded and rose heavily to his feet. He motioned to the door to where John was and Molly went to open it.

“Wait.” Mary called tossing a gun to Molly, who rolled her eyes and stuffed it into the waistband of her jeans.

Sherlock stood a few feet behind Molly as she opened the door. John had changed too and was sniffing a pile of leaves in a corner of the room. He looked up when Molly tentatively called his name and wagged his tail before bounding over. She instinctively put her hands over her face and he sniffed them curiously, his head nearly level with her shoulder, before licking her nose and wandering over to Mary.

“I don’t think John is in here,” Mary said gingerly petting the excited dog, “this might make things difficult.”

“He could make a decent horse,” Molly commented with a smile that was not shared, “Okay never mind. Sherlock can you communicate with him?”

Sherlock licked his lips. Barking was less defined than any human language. They could express emotions easily, and some short commands. He let out an inviting bark and John lopped over to stand next to him. Sherlock walked a few paces and when John made to dash past him he let out a growl. The light furred wolf bowed its head and kept a few paces behind Sherlock.

“Right lets get moving.” Mary said taking a few things from her bag and standing up. “If you smell anything Sherlock, let us know.”

 

They had walked for a few minutes with John trailing behind them when Sherlock paused before hurrying through to a cathedral like room at the end of the hall. Most of the furniture had rotted away but there was a bathtub sized bowl of raw meat in the center of the floor. John dashed for it but two sharp cries of “John!” and a growl made him sulk to a corner of the room and lie down. Sherlock and the sisters approached the pile of meat. It was clean and fresh, but a few human feature were scattered among it.

“He must be here.” Molly said quietly, “do you think he heard us coming and ran?”

Mary shrugged and Sherlock lead them back out onto the abandoned hall. One of John’s jumpers was waiting for them on the floor. “We should go back to get our stuff,” Molly said as she walked a few paces to where the jumper lay followed by John. She bent to pick it up and froze when there was a loud creak from the floor above.

Mary and Sherlock looked up in time to see dust falling from the ceiling and scamper out of the way. The ceiling collapsed separating Molly and John from them. When the dust cleared Mary groaned, “this is not a horror movie.”

Sherlock snorted. It would be if Moriarty wanted it to be. A large shadowy figure was creeping down the wreckage and Mary fired. With a yelp the bay wolf tumbled down in front of Sherlock. She had hit its leg, and struggled to rise before a second silver bullet hit it in the chest. Even before the fur disappeared and the body contorted shrinking Sherlock knew it wasn't Moriarty. 

Mary leaned over the body and examined the man’s face, “Sebastian Moran,” she said dismissively, “he use to go on hunts with me and my mom. Lets keep going, we need to find Molly.”

 

John spotted them first and dragged Molly over with him. She had made a makeshift collar and leash using John’s belt and some rope from her duffel bag. “I heard shots,” she said in-between gasps, “what happened?”

“Do you remember Uncle Sebby?” Mary asked.

“Yeah,” Molly said but then her face fell, “Oh.”

Sherlock was staring at the leash indignantly. Molly noticed and sheepishly untied the rope leaving the belt. “Better?”

Sherlock sighed and turned his attention to identifying the scents around him. He could smell himself, his three accomplices, Sebastian, and some one else. His spirits rose and fell simultaneously. Moriarty might be here, but it meant they were in danger. He shot a glance at John who sitting next to him wagging his tail. It had been foolish to bring him along.

 

Sherlock guided them through the ruined halls stepping over broken furniture and navigating around collapsed structural supports. Sherlock followed the scent, which lead them up a rotting stair case.

When they reached the landing John froze, hackles raised, and growled at the nearest door way. Sherlock felt uneasy but did not understand why. Mary and Molly raised their guns and stood behind John.

“Its not a werewolf” Molly whispered staring into the empty room, “Sherlock would have warned us.”

“This place has had so many uses,” Mary replied rooting through her pockets, “it has been a boarding school and factory, not to mention a werewolf’s feeding ground. The chance of spirits being here is through the roof.” She pulled out two rounds of rock salt and passed one to her sister. “Lets keep going, it might stay put.”

Molly nodded and grabbed the belt around John’s neck, who allowed her to lead him away, sending uneasy glances over his shoulder. When they rejoined Sherlock they continued their struggle down the hall. Sherlock could hear a distant click of nails against wood and hurried ahead, slipping through the narrow passage faster than his companions.

He entered a high ceilinged room who’s rafters were weather worn. Patches of moonlight streamed from missing shingles and shined on the back of a well groomed dark haired creature. Despite the seriousness of the situation Sherlock felt his lip twitch. The wolf’s white markings made an almost tuxedo like pattern, Jim Moriarty’s class seemed irrepressible.

The werewolf jumped lightly from its perch and sat in the middle of the room waiting for Sherlock to enter. He did so noticing the gleam of intelligence in its eye that John so conspicuously lacked.

Jim looked him up and down and made a small nod before rising. They began to circle each other in the room. Moriarty’s body movements seemed to speak to Sherlock, “We are more alike now then ever before.”

Sherlock blinked, not sure how to convey a response, and Jim moved closer. “I converted John too,” he seemed to say as he coiled around Sherlock, “finally you two have some thing in common. Isn't it nice?”

Sherlock snarled and Jim turned from him, “Temper, temper” he said with a flick of his ears. Sherlock tried to repeat the motion and Jim laughed, “Don’t hurt yourself. I have had years and years to master this.”

Sherlock licked his lips. The room had only one exit, and two hunters were right behind him. Jim shook his head, “Really Sherlock, you think I did not anticipate this?” Suddenly shouts rang from the hall and where proceeded by gunshots.

Eyes narrowed the detective turned back to Moriarty. “You and John can join me. You'll love it, having other like us, not just that old bartender.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“You are wondering why I am making the others fight. I am creating a pack, Sherlock. I want only the best, but I can make an exception for good old Johnny boy.”

Mary, Molly and John burst into the room. Moriarty looked up as Mary raised her gun and fired. The consulting criminal werewolf slumped to the floor. As his body became human once more the room seemed to let out a collective sigh of relief. Mary walked to the corpse and flipped it over.

She smiled at the pale face, “The job is done.” She sprung to her feet and fired at Sherlock, who let out a howl of pain. Molly screamed as Mary turned the gun on John and pulled the trigger. It clicked but nothing happened. Realizing she was out of bullets Mary turned and ran out of the room as Molly tried to get near Sherlock who was convulsing on the floor.  
John walked past her and nuzzled Sherlock’s neck. The wolf took a rattling breath and relaxed. Molly carefully examined the bleeding wound as John stood sentinel at the door.

 

Pain. So much pain. There was a burning hole in his chest, darkness was surrounding him. He shut his eyes with a shaking breath and felt nothingness envelope him.

 

Sherlock felt a hand resting on his head, a blanket covering him, and a tight bandage wrapped around his chest. He sniffed the air. John, antiseptics, and a trace of biscuits. Anticipating food he waged his tail once felt the hand withdraw. He opened one eye and then snapped it shut. Brilliant. Once again Mycroft sat next to him as he lay injured. He opened his eyes and met his brother’s. “Good morning Sherlock,” Mycroft said, “I must admit you have finally surprised me. I found it difficult to believe Miss Hopper when she called me a few hours ago.”

Sherlock scanned the room. It appeared to be an office of some sort. Mycroft was sitting on a low couch next to where he was lying on a rug. A metal cart a few feet from him was the source of the antiseptic. Sherlock lifted his head to see a mass of blond fur nestled next to him. “John refused to leave your side.” Mycroft said, “Once you have your voice back I would appreciate an explanation.”

Sherlock looked past his brother and found a clock. Mycroft followed his gaze. Sherlock growled quietly and his brother got the hint. “I had better get the doctor back in here since your wound is about to be disturbed.” Mycroft said and walked out of the room.

John slept through his transformation back to human but Sherlock’s experience was exceptionally unpleasant. It was not so much the change, but more his wound reopening. There was a long gouge down his chest where the bullet had grazed him and blood trickled from the torn scabs.

In a haze of pain Sherlock wrapped John in the blanket, wanting to avoid any humiliation he might experience waking up with others in the room. Sherlock looked up as a young man walked into the room followed by his brother. He silently gestured for Sherlock to lie on the couch as he wheeled the cart over. Despite his pain Sherlock smirked at Mycroft’s suppressed horror that he was getting blood on the furniture. The doctor did not speak as he worked and walked out of the room once he was finished. Mycroft stood next to Sherlock and leaned on his umbrella. “We found two bodies on that property with you. Did you know they would be there?”

Sherlock licked his lips, “I figured I would find Moriarty, I was not expecting Moran.”

“I take it things did not go as planned.”

Sherlock gave Mycroft a twisted smile, “I never pass up the opportunity to get shot.”

“We have Mary Hooper in custody.”

“You can’t do anything to her. Let her go back to America. Don’t investigate her or her family.” Sherlock said firmly.

“Why?”

“You would be risking John’s life.”

“And yours.” Mycroft added softly

Sherlock did not like the way Mycroft was looking at him. “Go get us clothes.” He ordered and Mycroft licked his lips as if he were suppressing a reply before walking slowly to the door.

John yawned from the floor and stretched. Sherlock wondered if he would remember anything of the previous night when he looked up and spoke,“You're an idiot.”

A smile crept across Sherlock’s face as John stood up, blanket wrapped securely around him, and walked over to him. He settled on the floor by the couch and rested his head next to Sherlock’s. “I was conscious the entire time, I was trapped in my body. But when that ........ when Mary shot you I regained control. I have been me ever since. Lying on the rug next to you I have had a lot of time to think.”

Sherlock’s pulse quickened. John had realized how stupidly dangerous their venture had been. “I understand if you want to disassociate from me. The risk of your condition being discovered is doubled if you continue contact with me.”

John shook his head in disbelief. “Wow, you really are oblivious, you know that?”

“Oh, oh!” Sherlock’s eyes widened, “but you mean?” John nodded. “I assumed that you have been suppressing, but that you would consider me, well except at Angelo’s that first night, I mean.”

“Its amazing watching you talk when you don’t know what to say.” John said putting his hand on Sherlock’s.

“Damn it!”

Sherlock and John jumped as Mycroft stalked into the room. “What?” John asked defensively as his face glowed pink.

The elder Holmes brother dropped a pile of clothes at Sherlock’s feet, “I owe Gregory sixty quid.”

‘Isn't money like air for him’ John thought. Sherlock seemed to read the question in his face, “My brother is more distraught over losing. He hates being wrong.”

“It must run in the family.” John smirked.

 

Sherlock crouched next to John at a fork in the road, waiting. A few buildings down a door opened and their suspect Kevin Fields, who was wanted for several accounts of assault, emerged. Kevin’s picture had been in daily news reports as the urgency for his arrest increased so he only traveled at night, which gave any crime fighting magical being who was transformed by the moon a considerable advantage.

After a second Sherlock nodded and they took off. Sherlock ran silently, swiftly approaching the man. Kevin looked up when he was a few feet away and let out a cry of fear. He turned to run and collided with a large furry mass. John growled down at him as the man drew a knife from his belt.

Kevin triumphantly raised the blade and plunged it towards John neck, but where it should have sunk into the wolf’s skin it deflected, sending a painful jolt up the man’s arm. As he dropped the blade and rubbed his arm the wolves growled. He turn and ran down the street, and Sherlock and John gave him a few meters start before pursuing him.

They carefully herded him, playing on his hasty fear induced choice of direction. The wolves never seemed to catch up to him, except when he tried to turn into a building. Then one would materialize at his side and guide him back to the middle of the road until a large building was in their path. Sherlock and John allowed their prey to slip past them and stumble through the door.

Kevin slumped against the closed door, either unaware or beyond caring that he was being stared at by a DI about to come off his shift.

 

Sherlock and John meandered back to Baker street. Sherlock was beaming, proud at how well John had done. It had been his first time out on a case a werewolf, and it had taken several months of training in abandoned buildings that lead up to this point. John stopped at 221 Baker Street and blinked. Sherlock tilted his head to ask what was wrong. John let out an exasperated breath and poked the door handle with his nose.  
Ah.

Sherlock figured they could break the door down and replace it but John seemed to read his mind. He shook his head and began walking away. Sherlock followed John until they reached an empty tunnel frequently occupied by the homeless network, but was currently abandoned. John curled up against the wall and Sherlock hesitated for a fraction of a second before tentatively curling up next to him.

John chuckled as he shifted himself closer to Sherlock. The detective’s steady breathing told him that Sherlock was already asleep. He pressed his nose into the black fur. Due to his fluctuating relationship with neurological stimulants Sherlock always seemed to reek of cigarettes, but John could not smell them on him now.

They had been given clean slates John thought to himself. A second latter he reconsidered his thought. They still had their scars to remind them of their painful pasts. Sherlock’s most resent one still caused him discomfort when he changed, no matter how hard he tried to conceal it from John’s eyes.

John nestled his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. This was their life now, and that was okay. Lying in an alley because the world’s only consulting detective forgot that werewolves can’t open doors. Sherlock violently refusing Mycroft’s daily offers for government jobs. Presumably a future of confused calls from Lestrade about half his detained suspects claiming to have been pursued by wolves. John drifted off to sleep thinking about how grateful he was that Mike had introduced him to Sherlock Holmes. How grateful he was to have been sent back from Afghanistan.

How grateful he was to have a home, because even with his mad flatmate/partner performing dangerous experiments in the kitchen and almost getting them killed every other week, he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
